Tales of lonely trails eBook

horses. By this time I was so mad I would not
get off. I rode all the way down that steep slope
of dense saplings, loose rock slides and earth, and
jumble of splintered cliff. That he did not break
my neck and his own spoke the truth about that roan
horse. Despite his inexperience he was great.
We fell over one bank, but a thicket of aspens saved
us from rolling. The avalanches slid from under
us until I imagined that the grizzly would be scared.
Once as I stopped to listen I heard bear and pack
farther down the canyon—­heard them above
the roar of a rushing stream. They went on and
I lost the sounds of fight. But R.C.’s
clear thrilling call floated up to me. Probably
he was worried about me.

Then before I realized it I was at the foot of the
slope, in a narrow canyon bed, full of rocks and trees,
with the din of roaring water in my ears. I could
hear nothing else. Tracks were everywhere, and
when I came to the first open place I was thrilled.
The grizzly had plunged off a sandy bar into the water,
and there he had fought the hounds. Signs of
that battle were easy to read. I saw where his
huge tracks, still wet, led up the opposite sandy
bank.

Then, down stream, I did my most reckless riding.
On level ground the horse was splendid. Once
he leaped clear across the brook. Every plunge,
every turn I expected to bring me upon my brother and
Teague and that fighting pack. More than once
I thought I heard the spang of the .35 and this made
me urge the roan faster and faster.

The canyon narrowed, the stream-bed deepened.
I had to slow down to get through the trees and rocks.
And suddenly I was overjoyed to ride pell-mell upon
R.C. and Teague with half the panting hounds.
The canyon had grown too rough for the horses to go
farther and it would have been useless for us to try
on foot. As I dismounted, so sore and bruised
I could hardly stand, old Jim came limping in to fall
into the brook where he lapped and lapped thirstily.
Teague threw up his hands. Old Jim’s return
meant an ended chase. The grizzly had eluded the
hounds in that jumble of rocks below.

“Say, did you meet the bear?” queried
Teague, eyeing me in astonishment and mirth.

Bloody, dirty, ragged and wringing wet with sweat
I must have been a sight. R.C. however, did not
look so very immaculate, and when I saw he also was
lame and scratched and black I felt better.

CHAPTER III

ROPING LIONS IN THE GRAND CANYON

I

The Grand Canyon of Arizona is over two hundred miles
long, thirteen wide, and a mile and a half deep; a
titanic gorge in which mountains, tablelands, chasms
and cliffs lie half veiled in purple haze. It
is wild and sublime, a thing of wonder, of mystery;
beyond all else a place to grip the heart of a man,
to unleash his daring spirit.